


The Price of Patronage

by Firestorm717



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Authority Figures, Blow Jobs, Caning, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Milking, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firestorm717/pseuds/Firestorm717
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Paris, Javert mistakenly denounces a state official, M. Madeleine, for being the escaped convict Jean Valjean, inciting the wrath of his superiors. M. Chabouillet protects Javert from the Prefect’s retribution, but has plans for punishment of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Patronage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



_He will bend, he will break. This time there is no mistake._

Javert had made a grave mistake.

The Inspector’s entire world orbited around three fixed stars: the law, which he upheld with zealous fervor; his duty, which he executed with discipline and alacrity; and allegiance to authority, which he elevated to a near religious devotion, revering the word of his superiors the way a priest worships at the altar of Christ. It was thus with some irony that on this day, his pursuit of the first two sent him careening into the third, snuffing out all three of his guiding principles and leaving him floundering in the dark, grasping desperately for a way to make amends.

“Well, Javert? What have you to say for yourself?”

“Monsieur le Préfet.” Javert bowed very low, his ponytail nearly sweeping the floor. “I take full responsibility for the egregious insult done to Monsieur Madeleine’s character. The report was mine; I made the accusation, called into question a state official’s honor. I must be punished for it.”

“This letter of yours says you believe Madeleine to be Jean Valjean. An ex-convict!” Frowning, Gisquet dropped the piece of parchment on his desk. “And one who, by all accounts, drowned in an escape attempt five years ago. I cannot fathom how someone as meticulous as you could make such a mistake.”

“It was foolish, I see that now. I acted without thought and brought shame to my station.”

“Your actions are not only a reflection on yourself, Javert, they are a reflection on the entire police force,” Gisquet’s voice rumbled with barely contained anger. “False reports like this undermine every officer’s authority.” He flicked the letter onto the floor as if it were a cockroach, sending it skittering to Javert’s feet.

Javert clenched his jaw, his face burning at the reprimand. “Dismiss me, turn me out. I do not deserve the uniform that I wear.”

“And what good does that do?” Gisquet exploded, shooting to his feet. “You think all will be forgotten with your dismissal? Your public accusation of a statesman has thrown into question my entire governance of the Prefecture!”

The air in the Prefect’s office went very quiet and very still. Tension hung like a sword upon a gossamer thread, its point dangling just a hairsbreadth above Javert’s head. Javert held himself ramrod straight. His eyes were unblinking, expression blank as a slate, like a Russian soldier before a firing squad. Only the cold bead of sweat on his brow belied how Gisquet’s words gutted him. “You are right. It is not enough that I be dismissed,” Javert said softly. He had done more than wrong a state official: he’d humiliated the Prefect, disgraced the police; his actions threatened both law and authority. He must be punished like a common criminal for disrupting the social order. “Monsieur, I beg of you, make an example of me. Press charges before the court. Let all see the weight of the law brought to bear upon an inferior who insults his betters.”

Gisquet’s response was cut short by a voice at the door.

“Enough of this flagellation, Henri. It is I who bear the blame.” Stepping into the office, Chabouillet approached the Prefect with a deferential nod and a practiced smile. “I ordered Javert to pursue the investigation against Monsieur Madeleine.”

Javert jerked, his eyes flying wide with shock. “Monsieur Chabouillet, that is not – ”

“Javert, kindly hold your tongue.”

Javert’s jaw snapped shut as if he’d been punched.

“What do you mean?” Gisquet growled.

With the tip of his cane, Chabouillet slid the fallen report to his feet, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket. “You’ll recall that following the spate of burglaries in September, we placed a network of spies in the black market near Rue di Rivoli. One of our informants witnessed a gentleman matching Madeleine’s description visiting the district regularly at night. He has the same height and build as our elusive criminal, and more importantly, a limp in his right leg when he walks. Based on this and certain suspicious documents, I thought it best we look into the issue before another theft marred the reputation of the Prefecture.”

“Circumstantial evidence! You know better than that, André.” Gisquet jabbed a finger at his secretary’s chest. “What in God’s name compelled you to accuse a statesman on such a lark?”

Chabouillet spread his palms with an apologetic smile. “No accusations were made. I simply invited Monsieur Madeleine to discuss a few matters at the precinct, and he must have mistaken my friendly gesture for a formal investigation. One cannot help the way politicians read suspicion into everyday niceties.”

“That misunderstanding will cost me a vote of confidence in the Council of State. You should realize how important their support is with the in-fighting at the Assembly.”

“I will soothe all tempers, do not worry, Henri. Madeleine is still new to the legislature: a self-made businessman with no family name, no connections to the aristocracy. He is but one voice among dozens.”

“It takes little to turn the tide of political opinion,” Gisquet muttered derisively. Nevertheless, the tension eased from his shoulders, and he sank once more into his chair behind the desk, his icy glare thawing a few degrees.

“That is why I will ensure his factory receives some lucrative contracts from our friends in Lyon. Madeleine’s reputation is cleared, Paris’s economy booms, and you can pin the libel on a few overzealous royalists.” Chabouillet’s smile remained as serene as a country pond, his tone carefully calculated to placate. “Is that solution amenable to you?”

There was a long, drawn-out silence. Finally, Gisquet gave a curt nod. “See that you maintain better control of your men in the future, Monsieur le Secrétaire.” His consonants cut like a knife through skin.

“Of course.” Chabouillet swept out an elegant bow. “By your leave, Monsieur le Préfet.”

With a wave of his hand, Gisquet dismissed his subordinates, black eyes scorching into their retreating backs.

Well out of earshot of the Prefect, Chabouillet dropped his gracious façade. “Come with me,” he said flatly.

It took a few seconds for Javert to overcome his shock. “Monsieur Chabouillet! You cannot possibly expect – that is, what you told the Prefect – it is… it is unjust, Monsieur!” he sputtered, horrified. While everything M. Chabouillet said was technically true – there had been a series of thefts, an informant did spy a man matching M. Madeleine’s appearance, and Javert was dispatched on the investigation – the report had been his own rash decision, one which his patron knew nothing about until today. Whatever invitation M. Chabouillet extended to M. Madeleine was not the cause of this scandal or the Prefect’s anger. “You cannot take the blame! I made the false report, slandered authority: would you have me slander it again by allowing a superior to bear the consequences of my mistake?” Javert’s voice rose, feverish in its intensity. “Please Monsieur, do not lower yourself! It is unfair, unworthy; I do not desire mercy! Let me confess to Monsieur Gisquet and serve my sentence.”

“Javert. You seem to be having difficulty obeying orders today. Did I not tell you to remain silent?”

Javert closed his mouth again, though agony twisted like a viper in his gut. Obediently, he followed behind his superior as they crossed the main hall to Chabouillet’s private antechamber.

“If Henri had his way, you’d be run out of Paris, but that would be a waste of a good officer – and the Prefecture is in dire need of good officers.” Chabouillet locked the door behind him, then turned to regard his protégé. “Nevertheless, you must be punished. As your patron and immediate superior, it is my duty to rectify your faults, as it is my onus when such faults can be traced back to my undue leniency.” Chabouillet’s steely gaze slid over Javert, taking in the younger man’s hunched shoulders, lowered chin, hands clenched on either side as if holding up under incredible pain. His next commands were clipped. “Hat. Coat. Knees.”

With quick movements, Javert stripped and knelt at his superior’s feet, eyes fixed on the bronze tip of the oak cane between Chabouillet’s boots.

Chabouillet let out a long sigh. Slowly, he began circling Javert like a lynx stalking its prey. “I did advise you to leave this Valjean matter alone. The case was closed after the incident at Toulon. Whatever drove you to suspect Madeleine, a statesman and longtime official, of being an ex-convict?” When silence greeted him, he told his subordinate, “You may speak.”

“I witnessed him lift a cart with his bare hands. Only one man I have ever known is capable of such strength.”

“Mmm, and how did you know this Jean Valjean could do the same?”

“I was assigned to his chain gang at Toulon. I saw him haul massive boulders and ship’s masts by himself.” Javert’s gaze grew distant. “Once, he held a marble caryatid up with his shoulder while workmen scrambled to repair a balcony.” Memories resurfaced, sharp as yesterday: a convict in a red smock with a broad, beastly frame and shorn head raised defiantly against the salt sea breeze; unbent where others bowed, unbroken where others toppled, his strength a challenge to Mother Nature herself. “The prisoners called him Jean le Cric; even the fiercest among them feared him.”

“You’ve made quite a study of this convict,” Chabouillet observed, his lips pressing together in a thin frown. If Javert had glanced up then, he would have seen a flash of jealousy cross his patron’s face. But Javert’s thoughts were still focused on the past.

“It is because he is a dangerous man, Monsieur!” For a moment, Javert forgot his contrition. A singular fever overtook him; his cerulean eyes gleamed like the sword of the Archangel Michael, single-minded, merciless. He hissed between his teeth, “And a clever one. Twice he has eluded the authorities, slipped out of my grasp; I had him behind bars at the hospital, and he sawed his way out the very night the prison carts arrived. He makes a mockery of the law! I do not doubt he would fake his own death just to spite my efforts.”

“I did not think you capable of such personal vendettas.”

“It is not personal, it is just.”

“Your obsession with bringing a dead man to justice is what dragged you before the Prefect in the first place!” Chabouillet shouted suddenly, his cane cracking against the floor.

Instantly, Javert quieted. “I apologize, Monsieur Chabouillet,” he whispered.

The older man took a deep breath. Reversing his grip on his cane, Chabouillet lifted his subordinate’s chin with the sculpted lion’s head, the metal teeth digging into the soft skin of Javert’s neck. “I have often been indulgent of you, Javert. Perhaps too often, seeing as you ignored my advice to drop the Valjean case.” A drop of perspiration trickled down Javert’s brow, pooling in the hollow of his throat. “It is disappointing to realize that my… fondness for your company caused you to bring shame upon both me and the Prefecture.” Chabouillet slid his cane downward, parting the collar of Javert’s shirt and tracing the musculature of the exposed chest, then dipping lower along the ribs to the stomach before settling between Javert’s thighs, teasing the bulge there with firm, steady strokes.

Javert’s cheeks burned as he squirmed against the polished wood, blood rushing to his groin.

“I blame myself for this debacle. Intimacy breeds contempt, as they say, and I have frequently rewarded your services in this realm. However, if it leads to insubordination, I will have to cut off relations for your own sake.”

“No!” Javert bit his lip before the protest was half-formed. “Monsieur, please, allow me to make reparations.”

Chabouillet stroked his protégé’s hair with deceptive tenderness. “You were always so obedient, Javert. What changed?”

_I met a man with the hands of a convict, but the eyes of a saint; the strength of a beast, but the gentleness of a child; a man who flagrantly breaks the law, yet lays his life down without hesitation to protect even the lowliest beggar… and now he haunts my every waking thought._

Javert’s voice quavered. “I swear, my loyalty lies with you alone.” 

“Is that so?” An elegant hand glided down to cup Javert’s jaw. “Show me.”

Javert licked his lips, groaning. By now, he was grinding desperately against Chabouillet’s cane, his cock a dull ache in the confines of his trousers. Shame clouded his senses; arousal made him reckless. Tentatively, he pressed his mouth to the seam of his patron’s crotch.

The sound of a slap cracked through the air.

Javert rocked back on his heels, shocked. A bright red mark bloomed on his right cheekbone like a poisonous flower. “You will have to earn that privilege again,” Chabouillet said coldly. Yanking Javert up by his leather stock, he shoved his subordinate toward the table in the center of the room. “Over my desk. Trousers down.” 

Numbly, Javert obeyed, more out of instinct than thought. He bent face down on the desk, cheek pressed against the lacquered mahogany, and fumbled with the buttons of his trousers. A flush crept up his neck when he pushed them down to reveal his erection. His cock stood at attention, stiff and rigid as a tent post, its tip leaking fluid into the thin cotton fabric of his drawers. He prayed M. Chabouillet would not take the disobedience of his flesh for further insolence.

“Thirty strokes for the thirty years I have graced you with my patronage. If you forget your place, we will start over.” Chabouillet tapped his subordinate’s buttocks with the end of his cane. “Now. Count.”

The first strike cracked like lightning. Javert sucked in a sharp breath. “One.” He maintained his equanimity through the heat that bloomed on his flanks. “Two. Three. Four.” Through the pain, Javert was aware of the growing throb between his legs. His erection had not faltered; in fact, it pulsed ever more urgently as if licked by the tongues of flame that erupted after every _thwack_. By the twelfth stroke, he was writhing, fingernails digging into the edge of the table. Chabouillet clapped a palm down on the nape of his neck. “Keep counting.”

“Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen – ahh!” Javert hissed when the cane struck high on the sensitive skin of his thigh.

“Focus, Javert. No distractions.” Even as he said this, Chabouillet slipped a hand inside Javert’s drawers. Javert moaned when he felt those long fingers fondle his hard prick, tracing the thick vein and teasing the crown until pre-come spurted, slick and hot, from the slit. Trembling, he fought to hold still, his whole body yearning to thrust into his superior’s tight fist. “Start again from one,” Chabouillet ordered.

Gritting his teeth, Javert pressed his nose to the desk. “One. Two. Three… oh… four. F-Five, ah Monsieur!” he whimpered when cold metal slid against the underside of his balls, the tip of the cane stroking, teasing, sending shivers down his spine.

“Again. I expect better from you, Javert.” Abruptly, Chabouillet shoved down the younger man’s drawers, exposing Javert’s shameful erection to the open air. Javert gasped. “I have barely left welts. We will remain here all night if I do not see an improvement in your self-discipline.”

“Y-Yes, Monsieur.” Tears stung the corners of Javert’s eyes. His weakness galled him; ignominy tightened around his lungs like shackles. He should not be so aroused by his punishment. He should bear his caning silently, not like a four-sous whore, lewd and moaning in an alleyway. Yet despite his every effort, Javert could not will his flesh to obey: it knew only the heat that spread like wildfire across his buttocks, the touch of a hand on his cock, the trepidation as he awaited the next blow. Degradation consumed him and filled him with dark desire. His body belonged to M. Chabouillet now; it recognized the more powerful man and danced like a puppet at his superior’s command.

Dimly, Javert realized he’d begun counting again. The rhythmic strikes pounded like a war drum against his skin. He arched into the next blow, a cry ripping from his lungs. This was right; this was just. He should be made to suffer for wronging his betters. Each blow drove home his humiliation, his inferiority before his patron, like a dog beneath its master, until Javert was moaning with pain or pleasure, he knew not which. 

“Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.” Javert bit his lip to stem a groan when M. Chabouillet dug a fingernail into a fresh welt. “Nine… nineteen. Twenty.” The beating abruptly stopped. Javert knew a moment of confusion. Had M. Chabouillet not said thirty strokes? Or did his earlier mistakes still count? But then, a hand parted his bruised cheeks and slid into the cleft of his ass, forcing from him a gasp. Javert’s muscles clenched. Shame engorged his prick as a thumb teased the rim of his hole.

“You are enjoying your chastisement too much.”

“I… I beg your forgiveness, Monsieur Chabouillet.”

“We must redress this.”

There was the sound of a cabinet door swinging open, a daub of something slick, and then, without warning, Chabouillet pushed a finger past Javert’s entrance. Javert could not help crying out. He started to lift his head, but Chabouillet shoved him down by the small of his back. A second digit penetrated him, and he twisted helplessly, moaning.

“Hold still.” With harsh thrusts, Chabouillet milked his protégé’s prostate, pressing inside Javert with unerring accuracy.

Gasping, Javert quivered beneath M. Chabouillet’s unyielding grip. Tendrils of heat tightened in his abdomen and spiked through his prick at every curl of his superior’s fingers, eliciting breathless pleas and groans. Though he tried to stay motionless, the sensations that assaulted him were too great. He _needed_ to feel friction on his cock. Javert reached a hand down desperately – only for it to be slapped away by M. Chabouillet.

“No. You will come like this or not at all.”

Another finger pushed into his hole, massaging his prostate relentlessly. Javert moaned at the brutal, burning pleasure. He bucked frantically, attempting to rub his prick against the table, but only earned bruises where the wooden edge dug into his hips. This too was part of his punishment. The three digits worked him wide open: secrets spilled, shame laid bare for all to see, his ass a perfect ‘O’. Javert could not hide the arousal he felt at such debasement. With each thrust, the humiliation in his gut grew like a balloon, stretching, pulsing, wave after wave throbbing in his groin until the tiniest prick of M. Chabouillet’s fingernail caused it to burst. All at once, Javert came with a strangled groan, strands of seed spurting from his cock, down his thighs, and into his drawers. 

Chabouillet’s voice was cool and collected as he resumed his stance with his cane. “Now, continue counting from twenty,” he said, rapping Javert sharply on the buttocks.

With his soft prick curled between his legs, the last ten strokes were easy to bear. Javert gasped when he reached thirty and was finally allowed to fall to his knees, his backside aflame. “Please,” he moaned. “Please…”

“Open your mouth.” Chabouillet shoved the narrow end of the cane past Javert’s lips. 

Javert sucked on the bronze tip eagerly, still warm from the blows to his own flesh, his cheeks hollowing as he took the hard, unforgiving wood into his throat as deep as he could. Tears dripped down his flushed face, and sweat matted his chestnut hair and whiskers. His stained drawers tangled about his ankles. When he looked up at his patron, his eyes were dark and beseeching.

The sight was enough to drive even a man like Chabouillet to mercy.

Pulling his cane from Javert’s mouth, he unbuttoned his trousers to reveal his own ruddy erection. “Come here.”

For a split second, Javert hesitated, remembering the earlier slap. But his superior had given him an order – he must obey, whether it led to reward or further discipline. With trepidation, he brushed his swollen lips to the tip of M. Chabouillet’s cock and was relieved to hear a pleased murmur. A hand settled in his hair, coaxing him closer. He let himself be guided down the thick, throbbing shaft as if it was his first time again, relishing the salt taste, the heavy weight that stretched his jaw: the familiar intimacy. Fresh tears fell from Javert’s eyes for being allowed this privilege once more. He did not even mind when M. Chabouillet pushed his head down until he gagged. All he desired was to serve. Javert worked his throat around the stiff length, swallowed each punishing thrust, tongued again and again over the dripping slit, even as spit dribbled down his chin and his vision dimmed from lack of air. When M. Chabouillet finally came, he gulped eagerly, grateful for the blessing of his patron’s seed.

Chabouillet sank onto the canape, buttoning his trousers and mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He offered his kerchief to Javert, who stared at it numbly. After a few seconds, he wiped his protégé’s face for him.

“There, you’ve served out your penance,” Chabouillet murmured soothingly. Gently, he tugged the younger man’s head onto his lap and stroked Javert’s sweat-damp hair, loosening it from its silk ribbon. Dark tresses spilled in a river across his thigh. “I trust I do not need to repeat this lesson?”

“No, Monsieur.” Javert swallowed. “Thank you for taking care of my chastisement.”

“I would not have it any other way. You are, after all, my best protégé, and I would hate to see you derailed from such a promising career.”

Javert closed his eyes, a lump welling in his throat. “M-May I… be forgiven then?”

“Yes. Your atonement is complete. You may return to your post, Inspector.” Chabouillet raised his subordinate up and watched as Javert dressed, the long greatcoat and hat obscuring all signs of the punishment he’d inflicted. “However – ” When Javert reached for his ribbon, Chabouillet yanked it out of his grasp. His tone took on a note of warning. “No more chasing after specters from the past. This is the last time I want to hear of Jean Valjean.”

In the black of night, Javert was grateful for the tall shadows that hid his limp and the wild, tangled mane that streamed over his shoulders. Above him, the stars twinkled bright and cold, the law’s constant sentinels. He did not look up.

**Author's Note:**

> For Esteliel’s PBAM prompt: Javert/Chabouillet with caning, shame, and a bonus side dish of slapping. This was supposed to be a short fill, but Javert’s masochism caused it to balloon into quite the monster. I apologize in advance for writing Chabouillet so cruel; I didn’t intend him to be such a jealous prick, however, my muse decided caning wasn’t enough punishment.


End file.
